Faller
by Aura Kage
Summary: He was learning the world, and she was born knowing it; he was fixed on his laws, and she her lack of any thereof. And once upon a time, he fell... {Ch. 2 up! )
1. The Ending

Notes:

--Whee…finally, a new fanfiction. ^^;; The story of a character that I made for a roleplay board that, sadly, later died. ;-; But despite that, I still felt somewhat inspired to go on with her…so there. :P

--The main character is a witch in the terms of _His Dark Materials_…but the land is different from Phillip Pullman's Oxford. Hopefully that didn't just turn off half the people who came here looking for a Lyra/Will. ^^;;

--This is something of a prelude…I know that's not allowed, but…neh.

**

Faller

Chapter 1

**

A desert of ice lay outside, as vast and wide as the ocean, trimmed with lacy coniferous forests looming like arrows with their dark-fletched ends facing skyward, points embedded in the ground. Infinitely smooth, the tundra lay touched by only by the sparse towns inhabited by humans, and imprints were never left for long. It was a place of solitude, and, to Chiroru Weirun, a place of mystery and tranquillity.

But not at the moment.

Breathing heavily and nearly limp with exhaustion, the femme's head lolled off the back of the bead, her arms angled weakly on both sides; it was a small bed, the only one vacant late at night, and for such a serious matter. Her throat was raw with screaming, and she noted only vaguely from her peripheral vision that lights were flicking on in the other cottages. The sheets, once an immaculate and fragrant with the scents of meadow flowers, were now dark with blood.

But despite all this, all of her pain, she could hear the fevered crying of some distant babe, and her mouth stretched in a smile so broad that her cheeks began to pain. Finally, nine month's of quiet stewing, of despairing…finally, she would receive something from it, retain some fragment of her mate's memory through the last remaining of his blood on this world.

Her awareness wavering haphazardly on the brink of the tundra's darkness and the even more final darkness of unconsciousness, Chiroru raised her head from the end of the bed and watched with half-lidded eyes as the midwife, her eyes still narrowed in the residual effects of sleep, nonetheless smiled in elation as she passed the newborn into the mother's view. Chiroru grinned and her arms rose from the bed, ready to embrace the now-awakened life wailing hysterically. But as the babe's form fell into a shaft of moonlight, illumining his moist, towel-laden frame, her arms fell limp and she keened with the abrupt life and loss, though the child had not been a stillborn. Her head fell back in a dead faint, the dullness of the world around a last imprint on her failing perception and her voice failing even as her mind continued the mourning howl.

A boy, a boy…the child was male.

**

. . .

**

And so came to be the youth's life, who was conceived by love but born into life even as his mother lamented loss. The next morning after his birth, the still-weak femme's eyelids rose to the beckoning of sunlight filtering through the musty windows. That, of course, and the febrile tapping of some creature's beak frantically demanding entrance into the midwife's cabin. Shedding all pretenses of some lingering weakness from the night before, Chiroru arose from the bed in the same frenzied manner as the bird pecking outside, her nimble digits quickly making sense of the lock on the window and throwing it open. Immediately, the Laughing Falcon that had been wild with worry outside exploded into the cabin, his little frame making a large impact on her chest as he dived into her embrace. Squawking madly, these hoarse sounds accompanied by shrieks, the bird and the woman collapsed onto the bed in relief.

{"_Malarowa!_"} Chiroru cried, deploying private speech to her dæmon, nearly sobbing into the falcon's plumage, which was mainly composed of muted honey hues pleasing to see. The pinions of his wings, his tail, and a mask over his sepia occuls was a deep black, giving the bird a handsome appearance. {"Malarowa, I'm so pleased to see you…"}

{Well?} the bird demanded in reply, seeming not to be listening to her at all. But Chiroru knew Malarowa well; he was only hasty to skip the introductions, to figure out what had happened the night before. {I could not make it the night before; I be sorry, 'Roru! At Belhourne I was, waiting for you to come home, but you did not, and then I knew truth! What has happened, then?}

At this, Chiroru's happy airs abruptly fell, and then the falcon emitted a keen of loss as well – he knew. But still, the woman felt inclined to continue, and did so. {"It was last night, of course, and then I began to feel that it was the time…so I landed, and I caused distress among many of the townsfolk here, and…and the child came, of course."}

{Alive?} Malarowa prompted, his small talons navigating the callused regions of her hand and perching upon her knuckles. He was a very small falcon, a bird whose true species originated from the neo-tropical areas of the south. Why he had settled that way so long ago, Chiroru had never known, and would probably never discover. She knew nothing of the southern world, preferring to stay north with her own kin and the place which had, of yet, been left un-tainted by the human's natural destruction as they went about carrying out their ideals of "colonization."

{"Yes, of course."}

Both paused, and their eyes met in a silent sadness met by they two. Malarowa was the first to speak, his voice a funeral bell that struck hearts dumb and lame. {Ah, then…it is good…that _he_ is alive.}

The gender was enunciated like something mildly disgusting, or at least something to be a bit sad about, though it was clear that Malarowa was still very happy. The same reply would have been given had Chiroru explained that the babe was mentally deficient in some thing or another, though perhaps with more elation if the child had been female. And, really, it _was_ a sort of deficiency.

{"Yes. Very good,"} Chiroru agreed, only having time for that small phrase when the midwife came in, carrying a bundle of obvious contents in her arms and looking very pleased too see the new mother. Her hair, a few strands loose of their bun, signaled her flustered feelings, but she carried the babe nonetheless and held it, very reverently, out to Chiroru. A smile again exploded onto the femme's face as she took the child, but her eyes seemed still deep with sadness. He was wrapped in a towel, evidentially the only cloth available at the time, and was sleeping. Malarowa issued a trademark burble akin to a soft giggle, and strutted awkwardly to the side of the bed to overlook the child, his dark beak carefully leaning over and nudging the newborn's little dæmon – at the moment, a minuscule baby bird, bare and a vivid pink. Its eyes were like two bulbous sores on its head, dark and bruised and closed.

Satisfied, Malarowa pulled away and nodded, once, to his human. {She shall settle as a bird, someday. This be truth.}

{"And how do you know, exactly?"} Chiroru asked, with a small smile as she rocked him back and forth. In her chest, new feelings stirred; anything, anything she would do for this child, if only he would remain happy, his entire life. She would oversee it, and make it possible. But even as she thought this, her heart fell in a downward spiral. His entire life. She would watch his entire life, and be unable to stave away the inevitable death that came from being human, and mortal. It was the way.

{Look! Look! You see?} the Laughing Falcon said, his wings unfolding slightly. {Even now, when she be not truly conscious, she chooses the body of a bird! It be the blood, the blood that run in them.} _Witch blood,_ they thought together, but neither said the word out loud.

"Excuse me, my lady," interrupted the midwife suddenly. Her dæmon was a slender, elegant swan that outshone everything in the room with its immaculate plumage. He and Malarowa's eyes met, and they nodded to each other, as if to exchange the most pleasant of private conversations. But Chiroru could sense the unease in both human and dæmon…which was really only natural, she realized; she had appeared the night before without a dæmon, so really it was very lucky she had been able to find anyone at all that had accommodated her, on such short notice and on such awkward pretenses.

"Oh, yes," Chiroru said, suddenly very embarrassed. What had she been thinking, exchanging no words with the kind old woman? "I am Chiroru Weirun…and I'm sorry for any inconveniences I have caused you." It was a flat greeting that only an idiot would have used, but no other intelligent answer manifested in Chiroru's mind. "And this is Malarowa."

But the midwife understood, and only nodded with a grin. "And I am Ousha, and he is Gyelan." Then she, like a small child, crawled up onto the bed and sat next to Chiroru, surveying the young one steadily. No arm was reached out to touch him; the only contact made was with her eyes. It was really quite symbolic, and the lack of praising, of cooing eased Chiroru somewhat – as if to affirm that it _was_ her baby, her child, her little one…hers, and only hers. Approbation would have only annoyed her, really.

But Ousha did have something to say.

"I understand that it is none of my concern, my lady," the midwife said, "but I do have but a single question."

"Ask it. I will answer, and it will be truth," Chiroru said, even to herself sounding now far too formal for the situation.

"Where is the father of the boy?"

For a moment, Chiroru felt something cold grip her heart, like a claw of ice; but then it retreated, and left her clear to reply. It still hurt so. But her word was strong, and was not broken.

"He is dead," the femme said quietly, stroking the forehead of her child – her boy, her son. "He had died a long time ago, taken with sickness in the cold." It was a lie, but close enough to the truth that Chiroru felt no wrong saying it, though she had promised. Malarowa shifted uneasily, not one to break a vow with seamless composure.

The woman licked her lips contemplatively, and the swan tilted his head at Malarowa, feathers ruffling sympathetically, unaware of his unease.

"Ah, well…" Ousha said, "I'm sorry. But that's the way of life, I suppose."

"Yes. Yes, it is." Chiroru continued to watch the baby, completely lost in his young beauty, his perfection…and yet, the single most fatal flaw any young one would have. Even now, thinking about it made her eyes water, made her heart bleed. He would die, someday…die, of old age, while she lived on. He would die after a life of hardship, of a confused and mixed heritage that would bring nothing but prejudice against him. And then she would be all alone, again. But this time in misery for what she had wrought…_him_.

{But that shall come later,} Malarowa whispered, in a voice meant only for her. {Worry not about it now. Truth: life be good, and he be life.}

Chiroru shook her head, unwilling. {"But it will come, and that is what matters."}

"_K'dros_," the witch whispered, her eyes closing to hold back tears.

"Hm?" asked the midwife. "What was that you've said? Cadros?"

"K'dros," Chiroru repeated, pronouncing it correctly. The word's emphasis was on its second half rather than the first, with the "k." Then, copying the tongue of her dæmon, which was void of contractions and wholly simplistic: "It be his name, and when people call him, he will know to reply."

Ousha smiled. "A lovely name. From where does it come?"

"His father."

"Ah, his father's name?"

Chiroru was suddenly overcome with a desire to spill all of her secrets – her secret lover, his origins, their happy times. Her deception. But it was not for the midwife to know. She was only human; she would not understand.

"Far from it," the femme only replied. "Though I suppose it did come from him."


	2. Down the Drain

Notes:

--Whee…thank you so much for reading on! And thank you for the nice comments too...I do so love comments X3

--And...yes, I forgot to mention the different types of quotes that I use in here...so I'll take the liberty to explain them now. ;

"Talktalktalk." "human" speech, normal talking

"Talktalktalk." private "dæmon-only" human-speech, when a human talks only to her/his own dæmon. I think I'll _italicize_ it later, though...

Talktalktalk. dæmon speech

_Talktalktalk_. private "human-only" dæmon-speech, when a dæmon talks privately with her/his own human. :3

--...mmmhmm. ; I realize now (as I look back at the first chapter) that some of these don't match up to what I actually wrote, nor does it conform to what's written in this chapter...so now you have to kind of wonder why I bothered giving out a key in the first place; but when I actually start writing something new (there are a few chapters un-uploaded on my hard drive) then I'll start adhering to my rules. :P

--O dang. I just saw that for some reason my brackets – the ones that designate when a dæmon talks – aren't showing up on FFN for some reason. Gaaaaahhh why!

****

****

**Faller**

**Chapter 2**

"K'_DROS_!"

Really, it had all been an accident: an innocent, if childish and immature, accident coming from, yes – an innocent, if childish and immature sort of man. It was simple enough: a janitor for a prestigious academy, he had been locking up for the night and so then proceeded home, whistling idly and spinning the keys – on their bronze holder, a thick worn ring roughly the diameter of his wrist – on his index finger. The clang of the keys colliding commented his whistle, and he spun more quickly or slowly in accordance with the song: _Winter's Fell_, one that his sister had composed.

And then, during a particularly rapid note, he had spun so quickly that the keys flew off his finger and into the streets. They had bounced and clattered, and he had run after them, but only caught up with them when they had bounced and clattered straight into a water-drain.

"K'dros," he muttered again, bending down over the mesh and ignoring the street grime accumulated on its sides and within the edges of its design. It was composed of a tessellation of diamonds, broken only by a flourishing signature of the High: _Micelta_. The diamonds were small, but there was a large slit at one of the side large enough to accommodate the keys and their ring.

He sighed. "Ailnekyra," he whispered aloud, and a thrumming arose in his brow and his heart began to pulse erratically as her name was invoked.

_Yes_? she asked, her voice a quietly distant yet familial and trusting voice.

"I've dropped my keys into the drain," he said, putting on his spectacles for far-sight and trying in vain to look down. "Would you come and see if you could be of any help?"

_Of course_, she said with something of a minor chuckle. He leaned backward, straightening his back and making sure that he was clear of the drain; lifting his hands, he cupped them as a safeguard underneath his breast and sucked in air thinly through his teeth as a glow emerged from his chest.

His heart began to beat more swiftly now as its essence was taken away; the glow intensified, defying the dim sunlight in the luckily-desolate street. She was longer than his arm from fingertip to shoulder, which accounted for the difficulty he often had in summoning her, but now as the tip of her tail dripped forth and her entire frame hovered delicately in the air, he was glad that she was not a larger creature.

The glow receded, and with it her suspension; he caught her as she dropped, and she looked at him beadily and twisted herself around one arm, fore section raising to look at him and sample his scent with one delicate lick. Her hood stretched to either side of her head, stretching, but then she folded it back and swiftly curled herself up and around his neck to partake of his warmth.

"Welcome back," he told her amiably, smiling and running fingers over the ridges of her spine.

I was never gone, she replied simply and with her sleek elegance. Now that she had emerged from him, he felt again that emptiness in the hollow of his chest, but was comforted that at least she was near – the Parting was especially noticeable when they were not touching, though bearable.

Now, Ailnekyra started briskly, slipping off his neck and landed quite without pain onto the ground, you dropped your keys in the drain, you great idiot.

"I know that," he told her succinctly, not at all bothered by her insult, which was anyway meant in jest.

Take my tail, and let's see what we can do. Gingerly, he took her tail, and with a great caution that the cobra did not feel as she slithered in anticipation forward he placed her into the slit in the drain.

_Goddess, don't let her fall,_ he prayed as he held her lower at her bidding.

Ah…it stinks down here, she told him with disgust. And I don't see anything. The drain goes down further, so they may have fallen there.

"K'_dros_," he cursed again, and Ailnekyra hissed at him warningly.

Let us not invoke things we would not like, she said, curling around his arm yet again but this time leaving trails of grime on his long-sleeved shift. We shall tomorrow call the Miceltanan and ask them to aid us, since it is late now and they will not be happy to see us to a trivial matter.

Ahh, how nice it is to be out and taste the air.

"I'll leave you out a bit, then, and you can walk with me when we go home."

She shook her regal head. You may be arrested for public Parting, which _is_ a big matter. Better that we are Whole than Severed.

"You're right, of course," he agreed with a sigh. He was really one of those that enjoyed being Apart than Whole – though she was within him and therefore _with_ him when they were Whole, he still felt a loneliness that he could not dispatch when he wandered solitary.

He held out his arm, and she coiled around so that her head and fore section was bunched near his hand; her head was erected expectantly, and he kissed her crest fleetingly before setting her against his chest. Her lovely frame became luminescent, the color of sunset's light, and as her weight drifted away she floated upward from his arm, individual sections of coil opening to avoid his arm and then closing again to form a whole when they had passed. She tilted her head at him, whispered a silent farewell, then pressed her muzzle over his heart and pushed through his skin, becoming just another fraction of his essence once more.

He looked with disgust at the water-drain. "I'll come back to _you_," he told it threateningly. The drain seemed quite unfazed as he walked briskly away.

* * *

His "home" was situated within the sixth district of Delhorn, on the sixteenth section and in the third rise. The streets here were narrow, more like alleyways, so it was impossible for vehicles to pass through – only those on foot. Dusk had scared away most of the activity, and the night was known for the dangers that could only pass when the sun was down; the sun was still a fourth up so he did not fear them, but still he hurried, if not because of the ominous silence.

Overhead, strung between rises, hung lines and lines of clothing that fluttered wetly, multicolored banners festooning the skies; nearly every window had a potted plant of some sort, and numbers engraved onto plaques of silver adorned the left of every front door. He had lived here since he was eighteen, his studies and Settling finished, relocated by _Micelta_ to live on his own. Well, generally on his own.

There was another plaque, this one of silfa; he set his hand on it, and immediately it bubbled inward, as if he radiated some sort of force that caused it to recoil. In a moment, however, it stretched back outward as it recognized him, like a puppy; it engulfed his entire hand, strangely moist and dry at the same time, and finally withdrew and unlocked the knob for him when it had verified his identity.

"I'm home!" he called, walking in and making sure that the door closed behind him. Theirs was a spontaneous door; sometimes it stayed open of its own accord, even fighting against anyone who tried to close it.

"And just on time, my sir," a voice said, fluttering down the stairs like a playful breeze. His quarters was a small place, as he had requested of the _Miceltanan_, until he got a family of his own. _If_ he got a family of his own. He doubted it; not only was he himself somewhat anti-social, but nowadays the Settled had been furred creatures, not the scaled of his Ailnekyra. Theories at the academy studying this strange trend had said nothing that seemed even remotely logical.

Now within the confines of his own home and out of the public, Ailnekyra withdrew again from his body and he strode directly into the kitchen while breezes played behind him.

"And your day today, my sir?"

"It was fine, thank you," he replied idly. "Though I did lose the academy keys in a water-drain."

"That's too bad, my sir," the voice whispered, sounding sincerely sympathetic, as it manifested beside him. Oddly enough, the spirit of his house always chose to manifest itself as the same thing, absorbing the pigment from things around it to display the gentle visage of a faerie with long ears, long, billowing hair, and a gown that was equally so. But instead of human legs coming from that gown, instead only a serpentine tail emerged, scaled and yet furred, with a fish-fin tail and flowing spines. He had thought he read something about it in a mythology, but no matter how he tried to place her form into a single name he only saw that she was pulled from several categories: western sidhe, southern sirens, and eastern dragons. That was only if she had received the idea for her form from those places at all. The spirit did not actually have a gender, either, but her face caused him to forever think of her as female, and she didn't seem to mind.

She appeared in full-form, usually lounging, watching him attentively. Her large, slanted eyes, at the moment the color of Ailnekyra's tawny scales, gazed at him now as she continued to speak with her distant, blowing voice. "I'm sorry that I cannot help."

"It's fine, Kaze," he told her, free to use her name in their own house. She smiled and caressed his cheek with her tail, mimicking his tan-white white complexion, which she looked at thoughtfully. Ailnekyra only watched in mild interest.

"News?"

"Ahh…" Kaze's expression contorted mildly, and she curled her tail about herself to prop her arm on her fin. "Nothing, really, my sir. Twenty-two more today Settled as furred creatures, and two today were condemned for public Parting" – Ailnekyra nudged him pointedly – "and then actually _fighting_, right there upon the streets."

"What were the Settled?" he asked curiously, beginning a cup of coffee. Kaze quickly dove down to take care of it for him, but he waved her off and she continued with a shrug.

"Why…it was a man with an arctic bear, and a woman with a bird," the spirit said contemplatively. She seemed to be always musing about one thing or another while she talked, her mind only half on what she was saying. She smiled. "It was actually a very interesting. Would you like me to tell you more about it, my sir?"

"Sure."

"Well, you see, it started in the third district of Tilaven," Kaze began. "The reporters said that the woman had been sweeping the front of her rise when the man had walked by, and she accidentally swept some on him. Well, he got very angry, and before the poor woman knew it he had Parted and there was his bear, looming up in her face. What could she do? Well, of course she Parted herself, but her Settled was so small it was hardly a fight…the bear could crush the little bird in his paws, I don't imagine what she planned to do with it.

"In any case, they began to fight, and – I don't lie – the woman was actually _winning._ Her little bird would fly up into the sky, and then it would dive down at the bear and the human with such speed…but then, you know, the bear finally got to the bird and smashed the poor thing down onto the ground. She began to scream, and attacked the bear herself, but then the bear smashed her down too and –"

That, Ailnekyra said, is horrible.

"Oh, yes, I know!" the spirit agreed, though she seemed rather excited about the whole thing. "Anyway, the screams woke up the rest of the district and they got the _Miceltanan_ down there and…" The spirit sighed. "That woman is fine, apparently, but since she fought back and created a ruckus on the streets along with the man, they're both going to be Severed and their Settled taken away." The spirit shook her head. "Such a pity."

They deserved it, Ailnekyra said boredly, reclining on his shoulder. Public Parting without a reason, and then _fighting_…that is absolutely disgusting. Who do they think they are? _Micelta_? _Miceltanan_?

"I honestly have no idea," Kaze said, shaking her head even more. He poured his coffee into a mug and brought it to his lips, and the cobra and spirit watched him, having nothing else more to do. After a while he held it up to Ailnekyra, and she dipped her head into the mug and licked at the sides briefly.

"May I take that?" Kaze asked. He nodded, and she swiftly took the mug away and set it in the sink. As he and Ailnekyra strode away from the room as the spirit set the mug in the sink, then tapped the faucet and whirled her hands around in a circle pointedly. Some remainder of soapy water set in a small bowl beside the sink rose and twirled in a miniature, foamy cyclone which set itself inside the mug, and when it had finished Kaze waved it away and then allowed clean water to flow from the faucet. That completed, she set the now-clean mug to dry on a rack and floated after he and Ailnekyra.

"Is there anything else you would like to do, my sir?" Kaze asked helpfully. "I have cleaned the house today, and the laundry is finished, so there is no work. Would you only like to rest? Shall I bring the catalog? Would you like to order something?"

"No, thank you, Kaze. I think I'd only like to rest."

"That's very good," Kaze agreed as he moved towards his resting room and laid down on his bed. The spirit drew his covers up to him and proceeded to make all else comfortable, blowing air into his pillow and setting the lights in more tranquil intensity, opening a window and half-pulling back the curtain so it didn't flutter.

"It's fine," he said uneasily, knowing that she would go about "making things comfortable" all day if he allowed her to. It was his understanding that the spirit's previous housekeeper had been quite rude to her, and though he did not want her to believe him the same and discouraged her from doing such things, he just couldn't stop her without formally and with a name requesting it. "You may stop, Kaze."

"Yes, my sir," she said obediently. "Would you like anything when you awaken? I can buff your scales, my ma'am," Kaze offered, from nowhere procuring a cloth, which she waggled temptingly. "You look quite dirty."

I am fine, Ailnekyra said with some revulsion and indignity.

"Very well then," Kaze said finally. She placed her hands together and bowed, then un-manifested and blew away.

Sometimes I wonder, Ailnekyra murmured in their own mind. Curled twice around his arm, once around his neck, and in surplus loosed over his stomach, her head came to rest over his heart. He brushed a finger against her crest affectionately.

"Be nice to Kaze," he told her wearily. "She's only trying to help."

I did not ask for it, the cobra replied.


	3. Stay With Me

Before ye read:

--Haha, it's been a long time. ;; Sorry if you've actually been reading this and wanting to know what's happened…lots of things happening, and not a lot of inspiration either. :P

--Please excuse any conventional errors in this, I haven't gone back over and checked it for any. Whee..

--O dang. I just saw that for some reason my brackets – the ones that designate when a dæmon talks – aren't showing up on FFN for some reason. Gaaaaahhh why!

**Faller**

**Chapter 3**

"And anyway, I have no need of help," Chiroru told Malarowa succinctly as he collided into her gloved hand and with that odd messy grace scrabbled over her folded fingers until he had composed himself into a noble, straight-backed pose. "The plants grow on their own, and the moon rises on its own, and time does not need someone to hurry it along."

Truth, Malarowa agreed reservedly, but you be neither of those things, and often even witches are needing of aid.

"Not this one," Chiroru protested coolly, setting her switch of cloudpine to lean against her side and running her other index finger down her dæmon's spine. A "Laugher," she liked to think of him, rather than the full "Laughing Falcon" – the latter was too long, such a mouthful of syllables, and anyway no one usually knew of what species she meant on those rare times when she introduced him. _A "Laughing" Falcon_? _What in the world is that?_

And then they would wonder, _what sort of a witch has a falcon-dæmon that laughs?_

She could care less, really, what they thought of her – but those were the thoughts that ran through their heads, and whether she cared was not going to stop that momentary onslaught of contemplation.

Malarowa turned his head as Chiroru brought her fingers away and began to preen his wing, nonchalantly. His colors were as odd as his name and his sound – mainly a vibrant yellow, his eyes were lined in a bandit's black mask, and his wings and tail were colored at their edges with the same ebony. His eyes were a dark brown, though they only appeared this color when the sun touched them, as it did now.

The sun. A tundra's sun – a sun that seemed to only give light, and no warmth. Of course, Chiroru knew nothing of "cold" – only warmth, much like one blind to color could only know black. Like the rest of her clan, she wore somewhat ragged clothing, though she took better care of her attire than most – a single-piece tunic, it was bunched and tied to her waist by a belt with a wooden clasp, and the thread that kept it together was the dull silver of use. The sleeves came to her elbows, and the skirt to her ankles; on her feet she wore the skin of some creature in the form of short boots, but now she took those off and stepped barefoot upon the snow, feeling it crumble wetly underneath her, her imprint left slightly and almost imperceptibly upon the white.

The boots were left behind her, one on its side, the spoor of her presence cast aside carelessly – but then, what need she to fear? There were few humans here, save the ones in the twin villages, and even those lay a ways toward the horizon. Her clan of witches, though she did not stay with them often, had long ago (in human terms) made peace with the other local clans, and anyway this was her own territory. The claimed lands of her clan, the one that she kept really only as a convenience – the sisters whose mere memory brought tangible pain to her chest, and in return that memory forced her away and awry across the other lands, exploring the collage of human civilizations further south.

But her poor dæmon, who did not like to travel as Chiroru, did not often accompany her…in fact, during the recent generation they had been apart, a distance that had torn at both of them but especially him, who needed her and wanted her by him always. But she, a self-proclaimed devil, she couldn't bring herself near him, to his purity, to taint him with her presence, no matter how much they were both starved for each other…

Even now, just walking, she had to fiercely shove away memories in order to keep her mind around him. And even pushing them back, she was thinking: _This is wrong, why should I do this…this is my dæmon, my soul, my heart, my beloved…why do I think such thoughts, why am I so evil so as to break him and keep him away and cause him such pain…_

She closed her eyes, brought a hand to her temple, and pressed – trying to smother the anguish before it reached her and she was forced to recognize it fully. Malarowa, sensing her distress as only he could, burbled and bowed, alternately lifting each talon in turn.

What be wrong?

"_How_ could I be such an _idiot_?" Chiroru asked him in return. Malarowa tilted his head at her, then half-folded his wings, lifting them and then lowering them in a very recognizable gesture – a shrug.

You be not an idiot, 'Roru, Malarowa said patiently.

"I _am_," the witch muttered. "In so many ways."

Since he knew that they would argue forever if he did not at least accept a bit of her words, he did so. Truth, he began, oftentimes one can be an idiot. Mayhap this be a time. But it is only one time, and does not damn you into much other times.

"I will always and forever be an idiot," Chiroru declared into the horizon and immaculate emptiness about her. This time, rather than deeply pained, her voice was playful and teasing, she raised her hands into the air, and Malarowa chuckled and spread his wings, launching himself from her hand and spiraling into the sky.

Fly with me! he called to her, and his tone was so deliciously euphoric that Chiroru had to oblige, raising her cloudpine and mounting it like one would do a particularly slim horse. Worn by her use, as if she and the wood were one themselves, the switch tilted her back and rose high, then boosted itself forward and after the Laugher-dæmon in a parody of life-and-death chase.

"I will fly with you," Chiroru called back to him happily, opening the link that went through both their mind and hearts and sharing her thoughts with his. He smiled at her, in that special link, and somehow that made all the difference – he wheeled back toward her, his curve wide and wings spread, and he rushed past her as she zoomed forward, the longest of his primaries brushing against her cheek.

Play with me! he cried. She laughed.

"I will play with you!"

He paused, and this time he said, in a much more subdued and serious tone: Stay with me.

She sighed, the switch coming to a stop. She raised her hand; Malarowa came to her, and she placed him close to her breast, where no true falcon would tolerate, and pressed him close, another hand over his side to encompass him in a small embrace.

"I cannot," she whispered, closing her eyes.

* * *

Since the three of them – or rather, the two of them – knew that he could not continue his work at the college without the keys to even open the door, Kaze awakened him early the next morning: his nap had stretched far beyond the lines he had thought it would extend, and with the spirit's help he managed to get ready for work. Bounding down the steps, Ailnekyra safe within his being, he ran towards the college but then took the deserted street that led towards the back door.

The drain in the middle of the road seemed now to be less foreboding, and when he kneeled down beside it and looked inside, he thought that he could see some faint light billowing up through the vents.

He sat back on his knees, closed his eyes, and strived for that meditative tranquility that set him, while in that special concentration, within alignment with his heart and therefore his precious Ailnekyra. The world around him seemed to gray and wrinkle around the edges, colors blurring, fading.

_I'm not sure,_ Ailnekyra replied to his silent question: "_What should I do now_?" _Maybe you should wait until the professors begin to come, and then ask them for help._

But the idea was only made for the sake of having an idea – of course he couldn't speak to the professors. That idea was preposterous: he may have been assigned to the college janitor position, but that did not necessarily mean that he was actually a _part_ of the actual _college_.

He bent down on the street, again, peering into the darkness of the drain, the fingers of one hand wriggling down as if they were worms baiting a fish. All was still darkness, but at least this time he had thought to bring a small flashlight – taking it, he twisted it on and aimed it down. The flashlight had been a part of the house's emergency supplies – at full power and health, the intense white light was as wide as the flashlight itself, which was to say a diameter of about two fingers across. However, it wasn't as much help as he had thought it would be: the beam pierced only a little way down, and the light seemed to be engulfed by the shade, absorbed and dissipating until it seemed that the flashlight seemed to radiate no light at all. He knocked the bottom of the flashlight a few times, growling and trying to get it to work properly.

_Wait_! Ailnekyra said suddenly, making his heart skip a beat in her shock. He had been about to lift the flashlight away; now he jerked in surprise at her noise, and by some catastrophic turn of events the flashlight, thin and of metal, slipped through his fingers.

It clattered once on the drain, balancing precariously between the mesh of the drain, and as he fumbled to quickly catch it before it fell the slightest brush of his fingers pushed it over completely.

"K'_dros_," he swore viciously, under his breath, quickly putting his eye close to the drain to watch it fall. "That's the second damn thing I've lost down this stupid –"

_Shut up_! Ailnekyra shouted fiercely, and her tone forced his mouth closed. Through the same eyes, they watched as the last glimmer of silver caught the morning sunlight before falling down into darkness.

He hissed through his teeth and slammed his head on the ground. Losing that flashlight meant that he would have to register for a new one, which would require a detailed, printed explanation of _why_ he needed a new one, which would require him to tell of the lost keys and therefore record, forever and in articulate words, why he was an irresponsible employee, and then he might never find a new –

_Did you hear that?_ Ailnekyra asked, her voice the slimmest whisper of a breeze at the edge of his mind.

"No…" he said slowly, and he winced as something shifted inside – felt quite like an organ had been pushed out of place, and she hissed in his mind.

_You're infernally loud, that's why you don't hear_! Ailnekyra hissed. _Now hush!_

He knew that she could feel him submitting, so said nothing further, not even in his mind; and, at the silent and unsaid beckoning of his heart, he bent down closer to the drain, setting his head against the mesh and crouching like a cat at the hole of a mole. After a long while with no credible observations, he began to feel undeniably idiotic, and was about to stand again when Ailnekyra said, firmly, _Go inside the college and get something that will open this. There is something down there…_

"_Like what_?" he asked.

_I've no clue. Now go, before you need to get to work_, Ailnekyra instructed, and he returned to the drain a several minutes later, a tool clutched in his left hand – he couldn't recall its name, nor, in fact, did he know how to use it; but he had seen something like this being used before on a rare occasion when a _Micelta_ had lost a slim pistol down a storm drain, and figured that if he could remember…

Holding the side of the tool that he presumed was the base, he took the strong band of elastic and stretched it from the head of the thing to a hook near his hands. The head itself seemed to be a blunt, two-pronged claw, like a crowbar or a metal snake's tongue. There was a lever built to the bottom of the tool, which – when toggled – would invoke some internal mechanism that would draw the hook with the elastic back and, in turn, yank the head of the tool backward and, with it, whatever the head was placed under. It was really just a very complicated launching mechanism, and in a moment he had made sense of it and then slid it underneath a bolt of the drain and pulled the lever.

_SHRAP_. _Khissshh – SHRAP._

He was sent backward with the force of the tool, and winced as he fell straight on his bottom, Ailnekyra hissing in protest and embarrassment. But at least the thing had worked – the edge of the drain that the tool had been focused under had lifted.

"K'dros," he muttered darkly, and Ailnekyra reprimanded him wordlessly and forced him up to try again. He went through the whole process six more times, until the drain cover had been completely un-attached from the storm drain; and then he moved the cover aside, careful not to make a noise. He wiped his hands together, trying to clean them from the mildew and moisture that had rubbed off from the cover; then he moved back to the drain, senses heightened by the fact that Micelta might be nearby.

He looked down.

"There's nothing here!" he cried out, a little more loudly than he intended, volume fueled by pure exasperation. "What the hell did you –"

_What do you mean, nothing?_ Ailnekyra hissed. _Down on your belly, man, and _look.

He took another cautious look around, then swept the ground with a hand and came down on his belly, taking care not to muss his uniform too much. He looked down.

"I still don't see anything."

_No, no…there's something_, Ailnekyra insisted. _Look down lower._

"'Kyra," he said, sitting up, his pose and tone that of exasperation. "You're hallucinating, and we need to get to work. Now, I need to replace this cover before the Micelta…"

And t hat was when the storm drain hissed, softly – and a blast of frigid air wheezed upward and almost threw him down. In response to this unexpected event, he gasped and stepped backward, but only managed to bang his heel against the drain-cover. It clanged and shook like a wounded animal, and with a sudden aural clarity he heard a shout and footsteps – the Micelta, coming to get him.

_Idiot_! Ailnekyra shrieked inside his mind, but she was more stricken with fear than anger. His heart seized with her fear; it was as if she had tightened her coils around his heart, blood seeping. _Run, run!_

"We'll never make it," he gasped, frozen in place. If they caught him, if they saw him using his employment irresponsibly…he knew what would happen. The Micelta were ruthless; they would take away his job, then lower his reputation so it would be hard to take any other work…impossible, really, since no one wanted to assign someone that had been in trouble with the law. If for some reason anything went wrong with the Micelta, anyone related would be blamed: if, for instance, a child had been killed, the blame would explode like a sensitive bombshell. The fragments would lay everywhere, on everyone, for doing _some_ sort of wrong – the siblings, for not watching; the parents, for not being protective enough; the builders of the road, for not ensuring that it was absolutely safe; the passerby, for not being observant enough…and so on, and so forth. In this way everyone was touched with crime, even he himself; and in this way it gave everyone reason to believe they were not worthy to become one of the law, however far-fetched the reason why.

But if it were witnessed, with a Micelta's own eyes, that one had definitely done something wrong – such as manipulating your position to take off a drain-cover to retrieve an item you should not have lost – then he…he could be liable to be labeled "irresponsible" for the rest of his meager life. And the rest of his life was too long a time to spend in entire poverty, without even the privileges to manifest Ailnekyra to comfort him…how _could_ he, after all, if he had no property and therefore no personal space to call his own, away from the Public?

_Run, you great idiot!_ Ailnekyra urged; and when he still did nothing, she squeezed his heart tighter and attempted to take over his body herself, her essence invading his nervous system and beginning to slap lances of pain against his leg. With a yelp that coincided with the cobra's aggravated hiss (after all, she was hurt as well) he jerked into movement just as the slim snowy muzzle of a Micelta dog peeked over a corner.

Movement, to be sure – one that was quickened by the simple force of gravity, which took advantage of his poor footing and clasped him like a demon, dragging him down to the bowels of hell. But rather than hell, this was only a drain; and he screamed in shock and fear, Ailnekyra's hiss striving also to escape his throat as the gray morning skies of home shrank as quickly as a cheap wool sweater. Inconceivably, he was falling for a much longer distance than would have been proper for the length of a water drainage, and as he tried to look down to sight the ground he blinked at the sight of it – for it was purely white, as blinding as the soul of the sun blazing into his retinas so that it lingered in his vision even as his eyes closed.

The wind rushing all about him was smothering him, pressing so harshly into his nostrils that he couldn't take a breath; and an unbelievable cold was taking him in an embrace as final and frigid as death.

An eternity observed him fall, and when he landed he screamed in the pure pain of it, of both legs shattering on impact and the added mixture of euphoria and misery as Ailnekyra was ripped away from him in agony, splattering to the ground in a quicksilver frame that writhed and glowed like a tentacle severed from a giant golden octopus. Finally she settled, the glow fading and her tawny hues emerging through the radiance – but she lay still, too still for his comfort, the heat and energy sucked from her body and leaving her little more than a limp, scaled sleeve.

But it was a blessing, at least – because as the darkness came to reap her of her consciousness, it came for him as well, covering his eyes and numbing his body, clinching his pain and feeling until even the brilliant white and its ghostly cold faded away into nothing.


End file.
